


Up in Smoke (Quién Será)

by Dancains



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Cigar Smoking, Cigars, He also definitely wants to fuck Oswald, Little does he know..., M/M, Masochistic Fantasies, Mutual Pining, Oswald is slightly oblivious because the idea of anyone finding him attractive is absurd to him, Pre-Slash, Sal Maroni probably wants to fuck Dean Martin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-12
Updated: 2017-10-12
Packaged: 2019-01-16 11:03:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12341382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dancains/pseuds/Dancains
Summary: "What do you think?" he asked. Oswald passed the cigar back to him, their fingers brushing again."It's...good. Very Smooth. A lot milder than I expected, actually."Maroni hummed encouragingly. "A lot of things can be like that," he added cryptically.





	Up in Smoke (Quién Será)

**Author's Note:**

> If anyone wants a little mood music, the song they're listening to is "Sway (Quién Será)"  
> ( https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nkawZyVAhDE)
> 
> This could possibly take place before the fic "Turn me to Ashes" but it's not directly connected to it, only thematically I suppose. Also, I'm not a cigar smoker myself, but I did do a lot of research for this. If you know that anything is glaringly wrong please let me know! (Any type of feedback at all is lovely as well)...

It wasn't until he heard the sound of the door closing somewhere behind him, that Oswald realized he and Don Maroni were the last two people in Bamonte's that evening. 

 He had been at the restaurant all day, fulfilling his usual duties as manager--doing the work diligently, even though he found the cover job quite tedious. Maroni, Frankie, and a few of his other men had come in late, evidently celebrating some minor territorial victory whilst talking business at their usual back table. He hadn't been included; Maroni had only called him over to pour wine, though he had spared a few details of the day's dealings, to Oswald's delight.

 He walked over to the door and flipped the sign from open to closed--something he should have done earlier, before returning to his mental checklist of restaurant closing duties. As he made his way to the kitchen to double-check that everything was off, Maroni beckoned him towards the table where he had been lingering.

 "Penguin, hey, why don't you take a load off." He gestured towards the empty seat next to him. 

 Oswald nodded, "Thank you, Sir."

 Maroni waved a hand, "No need to be so formal..."

 Oswald only nodded again.

 "Looks like you've had a long day holding up the fort here, so to speak. I know Fridays are always real busy."

 "I try my best."

 Something about the answer made Maroni chuckle. Oswald absentmindedly wondered how much wine he had drank that evening. 

 "We've had a real busy day too...on the business side of things. You ever smoke a cigar before?"

 The non-sequitur took Oswald by surprise. "No, uh, I can't say I have. Cigarettes, but...I didn't really care for the taste."

 Maroni waved a dismissive hand, the second time in as many minutes. "Totally different flavor. Cigars are...a luxury, you know? Something to...to treat yourself after a long day's work. I'll show you. I'm gonna get myself a drink first, though, do you want anything?"

 "No, I'll-" Maroni stopped him from rising by pressing a firm hand to his chest.

 "Don't worry about it, put your feet up."

 Oswald didn't feel right about it, but he obeyed, waiting at the table as Maroni ambled back towards the kitchen door. His chest felt warm where Maroni had touched him.

 "I'm getting myself a scotch, do you want a scotch or something else?"

 Oswald hesitated. "maybe coffee, if you don't mind."

 He heard the sound of the single-cup espresso machine humming to life, followed by the hiss of hot, foaming milk pouring into a mug.

 The only other sound in the restaurant was the faint bossa nova style music playing on the stereo. Oswald hadn't turned it off yet. It seemed to permeate the restaurant, just another element of an increasingly familiar landscape.

 Maroni returned, placing a steaming glass mug in front of him. Oswald could see the line where the coffee met the top layer of thick, sweet foam. He traced it idly with his finger. He thanked Maroni before taking a long drink, faintly realizing that he hadn't eaten or drank anything for some time.

 As he took a few more sips from his coffee, Maroni sat back down and retrieved a cellophane-wrapped cigar from the inner pocket of the suit jacket that had been folded over the back of chair next to him. He discarded the wrapping, and pulled a small metal object from the same pocket. 

 He held the cigar out, as if for Oswald to inspect. The thin gold band glinted in the dim light of the restaurant. "Take a whiff of that."

 Oswald leaned in, inhaling.

 He felt like Maroni expected him to say something.

   
"It's very nice...sort of warm, and earthy. A bit like cedar?"

 Maroni smiled, "You'll be a regular connoisseur any day now, kid." Oswald perked up at the praise. "Now," Maroni continued, "I could bore you with a whole lot of information about brands and sizes and shapes and all that, but I won't."

 He held up the device, a metal rectangle smaller then the palm of his hand. "This is a cigar cutter, you have to slice off part of the end--the cap--before you light it." He opened and closed the empty cutter in his hand to demonstrate. "Work's great for cutting off fingers too."

 Oswald felt his throat go dry. "Really?"

 Maroni laughed, bumping his elbow against Oswald's playfully. "I'm joking, I'm joking. Just thought of that one actually."

 Oswald watched intently as Maroni cut a few millimeters off the rounded edge of the cigar with a swift click of the cutter's sharp blades. "If you cut too much off, the whole thing will fall apart," Maroni murmured.

 He put the cut end in his mouth, digging around in his trouser pockets and pulling out a lighter. Oswald didn't think that he had ever seen such an expensive looking one so close up, he was only familiar with the cheap plastic ones sold at convenience stores.

 "It's a butane lighter," Maroni explained, taking the cigar from his mouth, "gasoline ones'll mess with the flavor."

 "Ah."

 He watched as Maroni carefully rolled it over the flame of the lighter, not directly touching it. When the edge of the cigar lit up it reminded Oswald of the glowing head of a flashlight.

 Maroni put the head of the cigar to his lips again, taking a long draw before letting the gray smoke filter out around the edge of it. He closed his eyes for a few seconds, savoring the flavor.

 He passed it to Oswald, curling his fingers around so he was holding it correctly. He thought he felt Maroni's thumb brush lazily against his index finger as he pulled his hand away. Oswald realized he had been holding his breath. 

 "Now, you don't actually wanna inhale," Maroni explained, "just, sort of, draw the smoke into your mouth. You can kind of swish it around a bit, almost like you're wine tasting. Then let it out."

 "Okay." 

He wrapped his lips hesitantly around the cigar, hyper-aware that it had just been touching Don Maroni's, and breathed in without drawing the smokes into his lungs. That had been the most unpleasant part of his brief experience with cigarettes, he immediately liked this more. It certainly wasn't as pungent. He let the smoke settle on his tongue, tasting a variety of hues of flavor before he pulled the cigar away and let the smoke drift in tendrils from his parted lips. Maroni was watching him intently over his glass of scotch, eyes never leaving Oswald's mouth.

 "What do you think?" he asked. Oswald passed the cigar back to him, their fingers brushing again.

 "It's...good. Very Smooth. A lot milder than I expected, actually."

 Maroni hummed encouragingly. "A lot of things can be like that," he added cryptically.

 Oswald wasn't sure how to respond. He took another sip of coffee to quell his nervousness, letting out a small noise of pleasure as the taste combined with the rich, heady flavor of smoke that lingered in his mouth.

 "Pairs well with the espresso, doesn't it?"

 "Yes, yes it certainly does."

 They stayed that way for a while, languidly passing the thick cigar between them. Oswald listened to the music, enjoying the dim stillness of the restaurant after a long, bustling day. He practically melted into his chair. Smoke, smelling of cedar and clove, drifted around them. Something about the loose feeling in his limbs made Oswald think of honey pouring slowly from a bottle.

As one song faded into another, he could hear a beat more like a mambo. A man's voice--something distinctly 1950's about it--crooned romantically over the exotic rhythm.

 "You like Dean Martin?" Oswald hadn't realized he had been swaying his shoulder slightly, in time with the music.

 "That man had a beautiful voice, that's for damn sure," said Maroni, not waiting for an answer. 

 "I...I think my mother has a few of his albums." Oswald responded, a memory coming to his mind, the hiss and pop of old vinyl filling a shabby apartment. 

Maroni shifted the cigar to his other hand and lifted his glass. "Here's to a lady with exceptional taste."

 Oswald smiled. He raised his mug and sipped the last dregs of the delicious coffee.

 They were silent for another moment, with the sole exception of Maroni humming gently under his breath in between puffs of the cigar.

  _When we dance, you have a way with me...stay with me, sway with me,_ came Dean Martin's voice from the stereo, deep and velvety. There's something practically hypnotic about it, Oswald thinks.

 Maroni eventually put out the dwindling cigar in the ashtray, glancing down at the large watch on his wrist. "Didn't realize it was getting this late. We should both probably head out." He stood, and slid his suit jacket back onto his shoulders. "Don't want to keep that mother of yours waiting."

 Oswald half-shrugged. "She knows not to wait up for me."

 Maroni caught his gaze, the look in his eyes hard to read--something about it searching and inquisitive. Oswald glanced down at his shoes nervously. 

 He locked the front door of the restaurant after they had finally put on their coats and stepped out into the cool night air.

 "You sure you don't want a ride?"

 "No...thank you, though! I'm really fine taking the bus. You've been...too kind already, tonight."

 This time Maroni shrugged, "Have it your way, kid." He patted Oswald's cheek affectionately before they parted ways. "Take care of yourself."

 +++

 Oswald removed his shoes as he entered the apartment, stepping carefully with sock-clad feet as to not wake his sleeping mother in the next room over. He slipped into his small bedroom and stripped his outer clothes, almost mechanically, before getting into bed. 

He tossed and turned, trying to settle into sleep. The song from the restaurant still rang in his ears, almost like a broken record. He could smell the scent of cigar smoke clinging to his clothes and his skin. 

 Silently, without thinking, he brought a hand under the covers, to the waistband of his briefs. He closed his eyes, his mind conjuring a hazy, false memory of Maroni shotgunning the cigar, exhaling the smoke directly into Oswald's mouth. He palmed himself with a sweaty hand. 

 He pictures himself dropping to his knees on the floor of the restaurant, without the pain radiating from his bad leg, unzipping the Don's trousers and taking something thicker than a cigar into his mouth as blue smoke engulfs them both. Maroni tugs at his hair encouragingly. Oswald bites his lip, desperately stifling a sharp moan. 

 He pumps his hand faster as he imagines large hands running down his bare skin, cupping the curve of his ass, kneading the soft, pale flesh. He's laid out on his stomach, open and vulnerable, the feeling of velvet underneath him. Suddenly the hands are gone, replaced by a white-hot burning sensation as Maroni presses the foot of the cigar to his skin, almost like a brand. The fantasy is so real that Oswald can smell burning flesh. He comes in his hand with a choked groan, the instinctive thrusts of his hips finally coming to a stop.

 The next morning Gertrud irons his nice suit jacket as she always does. She doesn't ask about the cloying scent of smoke that lingers on the fabric.


End file.
